


draconia

by ravynwytch



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Anal Sex, Andy and Quynh Are Warrior Moms, Angst, Bottom Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Bottom Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Canon-Typical Violence, Dragon Riders, Dragons, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, More tags to be added in the future, Protective Andy | Andromache of Scythia, Protective Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Protective Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Protective Quynh | Noriko, Soulmates, Top Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani, Top Nicky | Nicolò di Genova, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-02
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-15 05:06:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,140
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29803359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ravynwytch/pseuds/ravynwytch
Summary: They are The Old Guard, known as such by the simple virtue of being the oldest order of the Dragon Guard in all the city-states. But they serve no sovereigns, they operate on their own, having divorced themselves from serving any crown long ago.Their duty is to serve the people, to protect them, and too often rulers issue an edict that harms. They will do what they believe is right and they will stop at nothing to protect their makeshift family.
Relationships: Andy | Andromache of Scythia/Quynh | Noriko, Booker | Sebastien le Livre/Nile Freeman, Joe | Yusuf Al-Kaysani/Nicky | Nicolò di Genova
Comments: 8
Kudos: 33





	1. prologue - family

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another AU because why not?

The women—one clothed in earthy brown tones and the other outfitted in robes of deep crimson—watch the young ones from afar. The clacking sound of wooden swords meeting fills the air, the noise traveling all the way up to the hill in which the women sit upon.

“Nicolò still leaves his left side wide open,” Andromache notes.

“Not as much as he once did when we first chose them,” Quynh counters, smoothing out a crease in her robes.

She’s right, while the boy’s side is still a weak spot he considers it with considerable more care than he did a year ago. With enough time and practice he will be able to protect himself wholly but Andromache knows now that he will never be as good a swordsman as the other. Yusuf is naturally more skilled with a blade in his hand while Nicolò is far more content with a bow, an area that Yusuf struggles with. Both have their strengths and weaknesses. They are, in fact, a nice balance to each other and not simply in how they excel in opposite manners in terms of combat.

In the year since she and Quynh had plucked the boys out of the Ariculum—an orphanage whose sole purpose was to train future dragon riders until their thirteenth year—and taken them under their wing as apprentices, Andromache had observed much about their dynamic. Yusuf burns hot as the sun, he is fire and passion and blazing intensity while Nicolò is cool, calm as the moon amidst a sea of darkness, collected and analytical in everything he does, always watching and observing like some great bird of prey.

Where one lacks, the other makes up for it. They are like two halves of the same soul. It is quite possible that they are. Sometimes a soul is fractured, split into two and cast out into the realm of the living, to breathe life into a pair of unrelated individuals. The soul is not always made whole again but there are times where serendipity strikes and the halves come together once more.

Andromache had never believed in such stories before but between the woman beside her, the one who has been both friend and lover for countless centuries, and the boys down in the field, she thinks there is quite a bit of merit to the old tales.

The heavy flap of wings catches her attention, pulls her from her thoughts, and she looks up into the sky to see a pair of dragons circling overhead—one the same earthy colors she herself wears, the other a deep vermilion. It is not unusual for riders to wear the colors of their dragons, in fact it is common practice amongst the various Guard.

The tradition started long before she was born and nobody living today can say why exactly it began. Most think it is because it works as a sort of camouflage when a rider is upon dragon back—difficult to shoot a rider when they blend so well into the color of a dragon’s scales. Others simply shrug and say something vague about bonding though Andromache has never understood how clothing oneself to reflect the coloring of scales is a bonding experience. Conversing and traveling and fighting together is how others become close. At least in her opinion that is how it is done.

Much of the inner workings of their society are a mystery. Why monarchies and not a differing body of government? Why are orphans deemed the most capable of becoming riders? She does not know and it is none of her business. It is not any of their business. What she and the others under her are meant to be concerned with is rather simple: they are meant to protect; everything else matters little.

“Nicolò, Yusuf!” Quynh calls, standing from her seated position. “That is enough for today, let us return home!”

The boys stop at once, shoulders and chests heaving as they work to fill their lungs once more with air. Sweat makes their hair cling to their brow, darkens Nicolò’s near to black. They smile at each other and Yusuf throws an arm around Nicolò’s shoulders, the younger boy moving to encircle one of his own around Yusuf’s waist. They bend their heads close together, begin to chat about something Andromache cannot hear but she knows she would not understand what they are saying even if she could.

At some point during their time growing up in the Ariculum they had constructed their own secret language. They are the only two in the world who can converse in it, neither sharing it with the other children they were once surrounded by, and Andromache has never demanded they teach her nor has she forbade them from speaking in anything but Elden—the common tongue that was adopted by the city-states long ago to make universal communication easier.

There are a fair few Guard out there who insist upon their members speaking nothing but Elden but most allow those within their Order to continue to use the languages of the city-states in which they hail from. Andromache is one of those. She is not willing to give up her first language and she does not expect others to either. In fact, if she were one of those who forbade all but Elden, she knows she would have been met with resistance from Nicolò especially. He is like her in stubbornness on certain things, the major one being language. It amuses her how resistant he is to the common tongue unless it is absolutely necessary for him to utilize it.

Apparently it had been a point of contention between him and the instructors within the Ariculum and there is not a day that goes by that Andromache does not wish she could have seen an exchange between both parties on the matter.

She stands, brushes off her leather hide trousers, and follows Quynh down the hill. Their dragons land in the field, kicking up a gale with their wings, nearly sending them tumbling to the ground with the force of it but all it ends up accomplishing is that it causes the groups hair and clothing to flap and billow wildly in the wind.

Andromache and Quynh’s dragons, Archion and Suong, respectively, form a semi-circle around the small group. Suong dips her head close to the ground, her eyes the color of fire, and her lips peel back into the imitation of a smile.

“I observed your sparring from the sky,” she says, voice like silk, “how far you have both come in a year. How far you will go in another.”

The boys can’t help but smile at the praise. It is, after all, an honor to be complimented by a dragon—a creature so old, who has observed the shifting sands of time longer than anyone can possibly imagine even Andromache herself; who has beheld countless riders, seen them take up the mantle and lose it when the hands of fate deem their immortality has come to its end. To have a being such as that pay you praise is extraordinary, especially to young ones such as Nicolò and Yusuf.

“You will make fine dragon riders in time,” Archion adds, his own voice deep and gravelly.

Andromache agrees with the sentiment. The boys are quick learners and there is a determination that burns within them so brightly that she suspects that she will deem them ready to receive dragons of their own even before their eighteenth year.

She smiles warmly at Nicolò and Yusuf, her boys— _their_ boys, hers and Quynh’s, because there is no use in denying that they both harbor a motherly affection towards the youths—and ruffles their hair and leads them home to the small cottage in the copse of trees beyond the vast field.

It is not much but it is home. And though they may only be a Guard of four who have come from wildly differing city-states, they are family.

She hangs back, watches as Quynh and the boys make their way towards home, talking and laughing, and she feels a rush of fondness for them and she knows with all her heart that she would do anything for her family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have so much to work on and yet this happened lmao.
> 
> This chapter was more for world-building though there is still plenty of that to come, including some back-and-forth between the current timeline and Nicky and Joe's training. And have no fear, Booker and Nile will appear in the next chapter!
> 
> Hope you enjoyed the prologue!
> 
> Come yell at me over on my tumblr [here](http://ravynwytch.tumblr.com)


	2. chapter.1 - a brewing storm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: There is some xenophobia displayed and alluded to in this chapter. (Not towards Joe)

A figure cloaked in darkness descends into the alley, boots hitting the stone hard, catching the thugs by surprise and cutting their business short. Shouts ring out in the confined space, weapons are drawn. Silver flashes in the shadow’s hand, the blade gleaming in the moonlight. He’s outnumbered here but it does not strike fear into his heart. He has been trained to handle multiple adversaries at once, to always observe and be aware of any number of opponents’ movements—his natural inclination to survey his surroundings and what occupies the space around him lends itself well to such a thing.

When the first man rushes him, he lashes out with his knife like a striking serpent. The attacker falls dead, throat slashed open from ear to ear. He takes no pleasure in the act of killing but he knows it to be a necessary evil that he cannot avoid. Not with these sorts.

Rather than come at him one at a time, the group decides it might be best to attempt to overwhelm him. One comes forward, another from behind. He throws his hands out quickly, landing hard hits to their chests, knocking the wind out of them. The one before him has a large dagger at his hip and so the figure grips it, yanks it from its sheath and buries it into the heart of the thug at his back before dislodging it and stabbing it under the others chin, the tip of the blade coming out the top of his head.

A loud curse sounds from the other end of the alley. The figure looks up, sees the men who are their targets slowly backing away. Behind them the alleyway opens up onto another street. The shadow does not mind if they flee, in fact, they are expecting it. Him and his husband.

Four more men think to overtake him and he makes quick work of them. The action is what finally sparks the duo to flee, to take to the streets and put as much distance between them and the cloaked figure as possible.

Silently, the shadow follows and when they turn into another alley two blocks away just as expected, they are stopped in their tracks by another. This one is not shrouded, his handsome face on full display. The thugs think to turn around, to rush back onto the street but then the figure is there again—a great black mass in the night.

“Good evening,” the unveiled one says, a grin upon his face; and if he were clean shaven one might see dimples indenting his cheeks in a most charming manner. “Would you gentlemen care to tell us where the weapons you have smuggled are located?” His tone is as light as if he were simply asking about the weather and _not_ siege weaponry.

“Like hell I’m goin’ to give you bastards anything,” the larger of the thugs states. He reaches for his blade, his partner puts a hand upon his.

“Have you lost it? They’re Dragon Guard, they can’t die,” he says, pointing towards the sunny man’s chest where a silver emblem is pinned onto his cloak—a circle which contains inside it a labrys with a dragon coiling up around its handle.

“No, but we can slow them down.” The larger man draws his sword and his companion reluctantly follows.

“It would appear we will be getting nothing from these men, Nicolò,” the newcomer sighs with a gentle roll of his eyes. It happens like this far too often but nobody can say they do not try.

He reaches behind his back and unsheathes his scimitar in the same moment Nicolò slides his own sword from the scabbard at his hip. Though the blades are completely different styles, they are twins, having been forged from the very same batch of melted silver.

Their leader, Andromache, had made it so, had commissioned the blades from a blacksmith in the Ornwyn Mountains in the city-state of Rynwyrm for their Blessing Ceremony, held in their sixteenth year, two years earlier than what tradition dictates.

The swords are as tied together as he and his dear Nicolò.

They wait for the thugs to make the first move and when they do, both Guard move in tandem, close in on the man closest to them. They fight as one, their movements like a dance, each focusing on their respective opponent whilst keeping an eye out for the other in case there is a need to protect should either thug somehow obtain the upper hand.

Yusuf blocks and parries and truthfully he could have ended the fight at once, this thug is far younger than he is and not much skilled with a blade but he wants to give him a chance to come around, to perhaps change his mind and come clean but after a particularly close call—the man’s sword nearly biting into his abdomen and spilling his guts—he comes to the conclusion that it simply will not happen.

He cuts the man down with a swift slash across the torso and a stab to the diaphragm. The man falls to the ground, giving Yusuf full view of Nicolò thrusting his sword through the other man’s head.

Yusuf produces a rag from the satchel he has slung over his shoulder and begins to clean off his scimitar as Nicolò stoops down, lowering the hood of his cloak, to search through the men’s belongings.

“Yusuf,” he says, the subtle uneasiness in his voice causing Yusuf’s attention to snap to him at once. Nicolò holds up a silver pin, a circle with a shooting star inside of it, a dragon flying just underneath.

“A Dragon Guard emblem?” Yusuf questions, incredulous. He reaches out, gently takes it from the other. “This is for the Celestial Order but I do not recognize these men.” And he would recognize them. There are gatherings that are held in the ancient city of Elderia in the city-state of Eld three times a year. Every last dragon rider is required to attend—even them though they serve no ruler—and everyone knows everybody else within the numerous Orders. It would be foolish for any number of them to turn rogue. These men cannot be riders, it is impossible.

“Find their identity tags,” Yusuf says as he slides the badge into his satchel.

Every living soul carries an identity tag upon their person, typically it is clipped to one’s belt. Made of a thin strip of lightweight, polished, resin covered wood, it is marked with Elden runes and displays such things as an individual’s name, date of birth, and occupation.

One’s marital status comes in the form of their name, unmarried and it is but what their parents bestowed upon them at birth; married and a suffix followed by their spouse’s own name follows. On Nicolò’s identity tag, his name reads ‘Nicolò mar Yusuf,’ denoting him as Yusuf’s husband. Yusuf’s reads the same with Nicolò’s name serving as his surname. Andromache and Quynh too have a similar suffix upon their tags, but in place of ‘mar’ is ‘kor,’ showing them to be wives.

To travel between the city-states, a citizen is expected to show their tag at the borders so the authorities may record who is coming and going from each place. Nobody is ever without it as it is, in a sense, a mandatory accessory.

Nicolò finds the first man’s tag clipped to the inside of his jacket and the other’s on the back of his belt. His eyes scan over the runes etched into the wooden tags. “They are no Guard,” he says. Nicolò is speaking in their shared secret language for which they have no name for. There is no need when it is something only they know.

“Why have an Order pin then?”

“Stolen, perhaps?”

“For what reason I wonder,” Yusuf muses.

“They have been smuggling siege weapons,” Nicolò begins, “it could be they planned to launch an attack on the capital and use the Dragon Guard as a scapegoat.”

Yusuf utters a curse under his breath. The theory is quite possible. Enough of the shady guilds found within every last city-state would love for the various Orders to go defunct. They are the ones causing the guilds the most grief, after all, the Sentinels far too overworked and stretched much too thin to do anything significant about them.

In times of peace such as these, the Dragon Guard Orders act as secondary Sentinels, in a sense, only they travel from village to town to city to solve mundane problems that are a bit more than the local authorities can handle given their resources.

“We will discuss this further with Andromache and Quynh when we meet them at Harefeld.”

Nicolò nods and stands, hair falling into his eyes. Yusuf smiles and reaches a hand out, moving it back and out of his face, fingers gliding along Nicolò’s skin, over his cheekbone and to the shell of his ear. He runs the tip of his pointer finger down until his nail scrapes against the silver loop dangling from Nicolò’s earlobe. Yusuf had given the pair his other half now wears two years ago for their anniversary. Nicolò rarely parts with them.

“Soleo,” Nicolò mutters in his native tongue. It is a term of endearment, comparing one to the sun.

“Monamar,” Yusuf utters back, also employing his first language; this endearment likening another to the moon. “The Mortuarium will collect the bodies, let us find a place to have a late meal, hmm?”

“There is a pub a few streets over.”

“Then let us head there.”

* * *

The city of Darnell is a dense jungle of brick and stone buildings laid out in a maze-like fashion, the narrow roads twisting about like the seemingly endless bending and curving rivers that give the city-state of Vendar its name.

In the language of this particular place, Vendar comes from a combination of two words, ‘ventra’, meaning ‘thousand’, and ‘mardara’, meaning ‘river’. The name itself translates into ‘Place of a Thousand Rivers.’ It is not an exaggeration.

If one is not careful they can easily get turned around even if only traveling a relatively short distance. This being only the second time they’ve been to the city, Yusuf and Nicolò miss the pub three times due to the streets being a dizzying mess. They laugh it off though, finding the experience quite humorous.

When they finally do stumble across the building, they enter and take a seat in a booth towards the back of the establishment that serves to mostly hide them away from prying eyes but gives the pair a clear look at the entirety of the space. A woman in a stained apron comes up to them, asks them what they would like to eat and the pair order a simple meal of cured meats and bread with cheese alongside two flagons of ale.

Nicolò’s accent and, in particular, the way his mouth forms around the Elden language give away his origins for a man passing by shoots him a severe look and spits at the ground. It’s a vulgar gesture used to non-verbally say that someone is less than dirt.

Nicolò’s hands curl up into fists upon the tabletop. One of Yusuf’s glides across the surface to rest atop the hand closest to him, his thumb rubbing to and fro along the back of it in an effort to comfort.

Such attitudes are commonly displayed against those who hail from the city-state of Ligoa, a series of islands in the Tiburian Sea that were once ruled by a singular king but are now watched over by a series of Lords, one for each island that makes up the territory. It was broken up in such a way after the Ligoa Islands launched an expansion campaign upon the other city-states.

Yusuf’s own home of Menobia had been a victim to the crusade. Cities were razed to the ground, his people massacred as the Ligoanians took more and more territory, attempting to force their absolute worship of Yenwha, the Silent God, onto all those they conquered.

Every city-state has a patron god in which they worship though all accept the full pantheon of the gods, but not the Ligoa Islands. They are the only monotheistic region in the world and their devotion had been so absolute that it had blinded them, caused them to lash out, and countless innocents had suffered for it.

It had taken near a hundred years to beat the Ligoan armies back, make them retreat to their islands. Though it’s been nearly three thousand years since those events there is still a deep-seated distaste for Ligoanians. So much so that there had been talk in the Ariculum whilst they were growing up if an islander should even be considered for a position as a dragon rider at all. Nicolò is the first and only in the entire Guard and despite holding such a high position in society he is still looked upon with utter disgust.

His accent and islander features expose him entirely and it is why he tends to keep shrouded and silent, more so than he already is, when around those not part of his family or the general Dragon Guard Orders. It breaks Yusuf’s heart that his dear husband feels the need to hide himself.

Yusuf’s eyes follow the man who insulted Nicolò, trailing him to a table where a mean looking group of men and women are sat. He says something to them and they glance over towards the pair’s table. Yusuf knows they cannot linger here.

“Let us go, haybiti,” he whispers. He slips his hand into Nicolò’s own, locking their fingers together, and leads his other half out the backdoor.

They use the winding streets to their advantage, taking to them at random in an attempt to throw off any who might pursue them, as they make their way to the city gates. They flash their identity tags to the Sentinels stationed there and when the gates open for them they waste not a moment more before leaving Darnell behind.

Their dragons rest in an outcropping of trees. Aurelius, Nicolò’s dragon, raises his head first, grey eyes focusing in on the approaching humans. He is black as the night with a white underbelly the color of the moon, a stark contrast to Yusuf’s own dragon, Nasira, who is of a light copper hue.

Aurelius is the first to speak. “Something troubles you.”

“It is nothing,” Yusuf responds as he watches Nicolò. When the other half of his soul is hurting, he too is pained. He can feel the shame and frustration rolling off the other man even if his face and posture betray nothing.

Nicolò reaches out towards Aurelius and the great black dragon lowers his head, closes his eyes at the gentle hand that his rider places against his snout. A reassurance that he is fine, that his dragon has nothing to worry about. The low rumble that resonates from somewhere deep in Aurelius’s chest says that the dragon has accepted the answer but there is a note of doubt held within the noise as well.

“It would seem we will have to catch our own dinner tonight,” Yusuf speaks up.

“There are some rabbits in the underbrush deeper inside the wood,” Nasira informs them. “Deer by the base of the mountain.”

“And have you both eaten already?” Nicolò inquires.

Aurelius nods. “We have. There are a few less deer now than there were this morning.”

“We will go for the rabbits then,” Yusuf says.

Nicolò collects his bow and quiver whilst Yusuf takes up their water skins, electing to refill them on their hunt.

Their dragons watch them as they disappear into the treeline and then exchange a concerned look.

* * *

Archion lets out a deafening roar as he places himself between Andromache and the amphithere that dove from the sky to attack her. His jaws snap around the lesser drakes throat, causing the creature to emit an earsplitting cry. It twists in an attempt to stab at Archion with its beak-like mouth. All that accomplishes is the dragon sinking his teeth further into the amphithere’s neck, blood gushing from the puncture wounds and covering his face as well as the green grass below.

Placing one of his front legs upon the amphithere’s writhing serpentine body for leverage, Archion yanks his head back, ripping the creature’s throat out and silencing it once and for all.

With his enemy dead before him, Archion swings his head around. His eyes scan the space behind him until they land on Andromache who has managed to travel at least a dozen feet from him and is locked in battle with several bandits.

“Archion!” Andromache calls as she buries her labrys into a woman’s chest. “Quynh and Suong!”

The dragon’s attention turns towards the sky where the aforementioned pair is currently maneuvering about a handful of amphithere. There’s too many for even a dragon of Suong’s prowess to handle alone.

Archion shoots up into the air, wings beating rapidly in order to more quickly close the distance between himself and the duo.

Quynh presses down on the handles upon the front of the saddle. Suong does not hesitate, she drops at once, narrowly avoiding an amphithere from closing its jaws around her tail.

She’s never seen so many amphithere at once. At least, not so far away from their lairs within the Wastes that is. They are not a nomadic breed, preferring their solitude in the unforgiving and near barren environment of that place.

They, like wyverns, are known for their extreme aggression; how the group of bandits below managed to wrangle so many is a mystery to her. The lot of them should be nothing more than regurgitated bones now.

A burst of white hot flame is felt at her back and Quynh twists in her saddle to spot Archion who has just employed his dragon fire to incinerate the amphithere that was pursuing her and Suong.

Quynh returns her gaze forward. With Archion in the sky with them, she can move more freely now. She and Suong dodge an incoming amphithere, swooping under it. Quynh leans to her left, indicating for her dragon to roll. Suong does so and lets out a stream of fire, setting the creature’s belly alight. It shrieks as it plummets to the field below where it thrashes about for some long moments before falling still.

“Take me close to the ground, I wish to help Andromache!” Quynh yells over the sounds of the chorus of screeching the amphithere seem to not tire of producing.

Suong gets low, tips her body diagonally in a way that allows Quynh to drop from the saddle and to the ground. She breaks her fall with a roll, avoiding any bodily injury that might have come with simply landing on her feet.

In one swift motion she draws her saber and thrusts it into the chest of the closest bandit, stopping them from potentially landing a blow on Andromache.

The two women’s eyes meet but for a moment before they are tearing their attention away from each other to focus on the assailants surrounding them. Their movements are brutal and swift, each taking on half the band themselves.

Their weapons are sharpened in such a way that they are able to cut straight through bone without even the barest hint of resistance.

Limbs are severed, gaping stab wounds are delivered, some even lose their heads, others disemboweled. In minutes the bandits lay dead, strewn about like they are part of some grotesque tableau; the charred and ripped remains of a dozen amphithere only a few feet away.

Archion and Suong land as gently as possible. Archion has a bite wound in his side and one of Suong’s wings has a tear in it. Flying must have been excruciating for her. It will be some weeks before she can take to the sky again.

“It would appear the Sentinels’ intel was disturbingly accurate,” Quynh says.

“Almost. They heard there were only three amphithere,” Andromache points out, her arm sweeping wide to indicate all the lesser drake bodies.

“The numbers may have been off but they were correct in saying that bandits had somehow gotten their hands on the creatures.”

“Why they would want them makes no sense to me. You cannot control or form a pact with them. They do not care who you are, they’ll kill anyone who gets in their way.” Andromache grimaces as she remembers how violently one of the things had ripped a man apart after he had decided to free them. A fool thinking the creatures would attack only their enemies, perhaps.

“Ideal if you are not interested in taking part in the fight yourself. Do you think this could have something to do with the siege weapons Nicolò and Yusuf are looking into?”

“It’s possible. Use the weaponry to break down walls, retreat and safely release the amphithere onto a population. Most places do not have the security needed to fight off a wyvern or amphithere attack.”

It wasn’t necessary, not when the Dragon Guard existed, their purpose being to keep the peace, to protect the innocent. Not only that but both drake species kept mostly to themselves. There was no worry that they might lay waste to an entire population of people.

“We are to meet up with Nicolò and Yusuf soon. We will share this with them, see what they have discovered as well, then we can determine if the two are linked,” Quynh says.

Andromache nods in agreement. Their rendezvous at Harefeld is still two days away. Tomorrow they will have to travel there on horseback if they wish to arrive on time now that Suong is in no condition to fly.

She expects, however, that if Nicolò and Yusuf’s business has concluded, that they will be relaxing somewhere, not to be seen until the day of the meeting. That is perfectly fine by her, they all need some alone time every once in awhile. Frankly she would love some with Quynh and if they make haste, she may just get it.

As if reading her mind, Quynh places her hand upon the back of Andromache’s neck, pulls her in and presses her lips to the other woman’s own. Quynh kisses in a way that is a direct contrast to how she fits. In battle she is fury itself, a whirlwind of a woman, but in intimate moments she is gentle as a feather, all soft touches and breathy sighs of pleasure.

One would never think that such a lover would be so often dominant in the bedchamber.

Pulling away, Quynh turns her attention to Suong. “How is your wing?”

“It will be fine. I am sorry I will be of no use to you for a time.”

“Nonsense. You are my friend and companion, you are never useless. Rest well, Suong. We will be back in the sky before you know it.”

“And you, Archion?” Andromache asks.

“The teeth barely broke through the scales. My wound will be fully healed in two days, three at the most.”

“Take care of Suong.”

“Always.”

“Should we inform the Mortuarium of the bodies when we return?” Quynh questions.

Andromache shakes her head. “No, leave them for the buzzards. The Mortuarium will only burn them anyway, let the animals have a free meal.”

With their mission concluded, the women turn and begin to make their way towards town, ready to collect a reward they know will be waiting for them and a pair of horses so they might set out at first light for the quaint little hamlet of Harefeld.

* * *

Nile pushes the door to the Flute & Carriage wide open. The raucous sounds of drunkards and poorly played instruments at once assaulting her ears. The place is dark, dank, and reeks of stale alcohol, vomit, and far too many unwashed bodies. Not in a million years would she ever have envisioned that she’d set foot into a place like this and yet here she was.

She’d abandoned her Sentinel post in the Market District of the city to come here. What she is doing is stupid, she could lose her job, simply leaving as she had, but she finds she doesn’t care in this moment.

“Somethin’ I can help ya with, girly?” the barkeep asks as he leans against the counter top.

Nile ignores the nickname. “I’m looking for someone.”

“Plenty o’ people ‘ere, who ya need?”

“Blond man. Tall. Parseille accent.” That's the vague description she'd heard from some of the other women in her unit who had heard others fawning over some dragon rider being in the city. Something about blond men sent far too many ladies wild.

The barkeep’s eyes shoot towards a man two seats away from where Nile stands. The man looks drunk and sad and nothing like how Nile imagined a dragon rider to look. It’s somewhat disappointing but better than nothing.

She slides over to him. “I’m Nile.”

The man hums and takes a drink from his flagon.

“I need your help.”

“If you need help then I’m not the person you’re looking for.”

“You’re a dragon rider.”

The man laughs joylessly. “Not anymore.”

She points to the silver pin stuck into his tunic. “Once a dragon rider always a dragon rider.”

“I left that life behind years ago. My dragon is...somewhere else. Mountains maybe.”

Nile frowns but doesn’t back down. “Call them back. I know you can.”

“Listen, I’m not interested in whatever business you want to get me involved in. If you need the Guard so badly then find somebody else.”

“There is nobody else in the entire city.”

“That’s a damn shame then, isn’t it?”

Her feelings get the better of her in that instant and she finds herself reaching out and yanking the flagon from his hands. “I need your help and whether you like it or not you’re going to give it to me because this isn’t about just you or me, it’s about the Dragon Guard as a whole.”

He sighs and turns towards her. “What are you talking about?”

“I heard some things a few days ago about an attack. Rumors...but I think they hold some weight to them. Somebody wants to destroy them.”

“Like I said I can’t help you,” the man replies. Nile opens her mouth to protest but before she can, he’s speaking again. “But, if I take you to one of the Orders, will you get off my ass?”

“Yes.”

“Then let’s go.” He slaps down a few gold dracmere and slides off his seat, stumbling momentarily.

For a moment Nile wonders if she should offer him a shoulder to lean on but keeps the request to herself and simply follows the drunk man out of the disgusting little establishment.

“What’s your name?” she asks as they step out onto the muddied streets of Beggars End—the poorest of all the sections in the city of Tevall.

“Sebastien marto Celeste.”

Nile frowns at the name. Dissolution of marriages are exceedingly rare in Parseille society and given his disposition she senses that he does not bear the ‘marto’ because of a willful separation.

“I’m sorry,” she mutters.

“Don’t,” Sebastien says with a shake of his head. “Just...don’t.”

She nods and follows after as he makes his way down the street. Her eyes dart about as they move along. Nile doesn’t feel safe. While she’d tried to reassure herself that the worst that could happen to her is losing her position within the Sentinels, she knows it is more than that. If her theory is correct, she could lose her life should anyone know her plans.

“I didn’t ask inside but, if you’re so worried about an attack on the Guard then why not inform your superiors?”

“...I felt it was too dangerous to do so.”

“And why is that?”

“Because I think some of them are in on it.”

Sebastien stops in his tracks, turns on his heel to face her. “You think Sentinels are planning to bring destruction to the Guard?”

“I believe some of them are working with outside forces to do so.”

Sebastien’s face darkens considerably. “Does anybody know you set out to look for me?”

“Not as far as I’m aware,” she replies.

“We need to hurry.”

“You think somebody has caught on that I know more than I should?”

“If those men who are doing a piss poor job of tailing us are anything to go by then yes.”

Nile begins to turn her face but Sebastien stops her with a hand upon her cheek. “No. Do not give it away. Act natural.”

They resume walking, this time with Nile right by Sebastien’s side, her own nearly pressed into the man’s body. “The Orders move around all the time, how do you know where one will be?”

“I don’t, especially not my old one but I figure we’ll start in Harefeld. It’s only about a day’s ride away.”

“We could go straight to Elderia, couldn’t we? To the seat of the Guard?”

“Too far. On horseback it would take weeks. We find a Dragon Guard within Vendar and they can get that information out in days. If an attack is to really happen then we don’t want to waste anymore time than absolutely necessary.”

“Right,” Nile says with a nod.

“Corporal Nile!” A voice calls up suddenly.

“That sounds like my squadron leader.”

“Ignore him.”

“Corporal Nile, I order you to stop right there!”

“Hand on your sword,” Sebastien whispers into her ear.

“Are you serious?” she asks incredulously.

“Yes.”

“I know that man, I can’t just kill him.”

“You are about to have no choice in the matter.”

Cold dread lances through her. Would the man really harm her? She’s known the Captain since she was a girl, he’s like a second father to her _—_ gods above, he _knew_ her actual father. Bile rises in her throat at the very thought that he may be willing to cut her life short, that he is colluding with others to bring an end to such an important aspect of their society.

The duo stops, waits. Nile can feel her heart pounding in her ribcage. It feels as though it might smash right through the bone.

“I have been looking everywhere for you, Corporal. You abandoned your post.”

“I know. I apologize, Captain Noll.”

“Come with me, the Commandant wishes to have a word with you.”

“I’m afraid I have to decline the request.”

Noll’s face falls. “That was not a request, that was an order.”

“She isn’t going,” Sebastien speaks up.

“And who are _you_?”

“None of your business.”

Noll scoffs. He makes a rude gesture towards the other man and reaches out to grab Nile but before his hand can close around her arm, the edge of a blade is pressed into his neck.

“I told you she is not going with you.”

Noll lashes out. He manages to hit Sebastien square in the gut, causing the former rider to double over. Nile’s sword slides free from its sheath. Her hands shake as she holds it up, ready to kill the man whom she has looked up to since long before joining the Sentinels.

She steels herself against her nerves, tells herself that Sebastien is right, that she has no choice in this. It’s her life or Noll’s and she refuses to die here. She will _not_ die here.

Once the Captain has gotten close enough again, she strikes with her sword. A warning jab, enough to nick the skin but not seriously wound. She catches Sebastien’s eye and there is a silent understanding that passes between them as Noll and the other two Sentinels beside him draw their weapons.

Determination and pure self-preservation takes precedence in Nile’s mind and she swings her sword in a wide arch, blocking a blow that would have ended her life in an instant. It opens up the Sentinel to Noll's left to an attack and Sebastien takes the opportunity afforded to him to slash the man’s belly open.

Noll and the second Sentinel whom Nile does not recognize launch a joint attack. Sebastien leaves her to lock swords with her Captain while he takes on the other.

Steel clashes against steel, filling the silent streets with their metallic shrieking. Nile blocks each swing but cannot find an opening to take up the offensive. Noll is too skilled a swordsman to allow her such a thing. She hardens her expression, plants her feet. If he will not give her an opening then she’ll create one herself.

Just barely she manages to parry his attack, the tip of his blade brushes against her cheek, opening it up and causing a small stream of blood to travel down. Noll’s eyes widen and she can’t help but feel a small thrill rush down her spine at taking him by surprise. However, there is a harsh bitterness to it all as she slides her knife from its scabbard and thrusts out, burying the blade into his heart.

For years she had tried to best him in practice, to catch him off guard, surprise him in a way that would make him proud. It had never worked and now the one time she has managed it it is to end his life.

She is shaking and panting as she takes some steps back from his body, only stopping when she bumps into somebody. Nile looks up to see it is Sebastien. There is blood on his face as well but unlike her, he is not sporting his own.

Part of her wants to cry but this is no time for tears and there are more important matters at hand. She will have plenty of time to mourn the life she has now ruined and taken later.

Sebastien lays a gentle hand upon her shoulder. “Come, Nile,” he says, “we have to leave the city before they are found. The Sentinels will put this place on lock down when they do.”

The pair is on horseback and only a quarter of a mile from the city when they hear bells sound. Captain Noll and the two Sentinels have been discovered and once more Nile feels sick.

She buries her feelings deep down under a thick layer of stone, and urges her horse on towards Harefeld, her new companion close on her heels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Given this is a fantasy AU languages are either made up or a bastardization of other languages. I will provide translations anytime fictional languages crop up though they will not be used extensively.
> 
> Translations:  
> Mar = Husband Of  
> Kor = Wife Of  
> Marto = Former Husband Of  
> Soleo = My sun  
> Monamar = My moon  
> Haybiti = My darling life
> 
> The identity tags in the fic are based off of hopae, a old form of identification that existed in Korea during the Joseon Dynasty.
> 
> The name of the city-state of Ligoa was created by combining Liguria and Genova/Genoa together. Tiburian Sea from the Tiber River and Ligurian Sea. And finally, Parseille from Paris and Marseille.
> 
> Hope you liked it!


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